by Amanda Cabot
“Newcomers like my wife?” It was the first time Travis had spoken since they’d gathered around the table. Though he was normally quiet during these meals, Catherine knew he would not allow anyone to insult Lydia. His question was brief, but his steely tone left no doubt that he was displeased.
Lydia had faced resentment and outright hostility when she had first arrived in Cimarron Creek, and though she was now accepted by most of the townspeople, Travis was determined to protect her.
While Uncle Charles seemed oblivious to the unspoken threat, Aunt Mary recognized it and shook her head vigorously. “Charles didn’t mean anything bad, did you, Charles?”
“Of course not.” Uncle Charles laid his hand on Lydia’s. “I don’t think of you as a newcomer anymore. You’re part of the family.”
And family was important, at least to the Whitfields. That was why Uncle Charles and Aunt Mary had accepted Lydia: she’d married a Whitfield. Family was why after their younger son’s tragic death and their daughter-in-law’s move to Austin, they’d begged Catherine to live with them.
“You’re all alone,” Aunt Mary had said. “I’m lonely too. We could help each other.”
Catherine had refused the plea to join the Grays’ household, preferring occasional loneliness to her aunt’s obsessive mothering and Uncle Charles’s bold stares and unwelcome touches. Even Warner’s presence would not have made living here pleasant. Her sole concession had been agreeing to join her aunt and uncle and Warner for Sunday dinner once she’d convinced Lydia and Travis to come too.
“Misery loves company,” she had told Lydia, not certain whether she or Warner was the more miserable at the meals. Fortunately, Travis and Lydia’s company had seemed to mute Aunt Mary’s complaints a bit.
“I saw Henrietta Brooks corner the new man today,” Aunt Mary announced as she buttered a hot roll. “She probably figured he’s so desperate for a wife that he’ll overlook Anna’s buck teeth.”
Lydia raised one brow as she said, “Anna has a lovely disposition. I’ve never heard her say an unkind word about anyone.”
Aunt Mary ignored Lydia’s veiled barb and continued to dissect the Brooks family and Anna’s chances of snaring a suitable husband, not seeming to remember that she herself had been married for her money and position, not her beauty.
An hour and a half later, Catherine took a deep breath of air as she and Lydia left the Grays’ home and headed toward Catherine’s. As often happened on a Sunday, Travis had remained to play horseshoes with his cousin.
“Was it only me, or did Aunt Mary seem more critical than normal?” Catherine asked as she and Lydia headed east on Mesquite. It was less than three blocks from the Grays’ home to hers, but there were times when Catherine felt as if she were entering a different world when she emerged from her aunt and uncle’s ornate house. The one she’d shared with her mother was only a fraction of the size of the Grays’, but Catherine would not have traded the serenity she found there for all the marble and polished wood in the other house.
“It wasn’t your imagination,” Lydia assured her. “I noticed it too. Mary’s started coming to Cimarron Sweets almost every day. I think she’s lonely.”
“That’s understandable.” Though Catherine wasn’t a daily visitor, she stopped in Lydia’s candy store at least three afternoons a week, more for her friend’s company than the delicious confections Lydia sold. It was likely that Aunt Mary felt the same need for companionship during the day when Uncle Charles was at the livery and Warner at his apothecary.
“I’m not surprised that she’s lonely. Aunt Mary doted on that granddaughter of hers, and now she’s gone. What I find strange is that she never speaks of either Hilda or Susan. It’s as if they never existed.”
Lydia looked in all directions before she responded, as if she wanted to be certain she would not be overheard. “You’d know better than I, but that seems to be a Whitfield tradition. Look at how Aunt Bertha never spoke of Joan.”
Though the January sun was weak, there was no reason Catherine should have shivered. Still, although she’d lived in Cimarron Creek her entire life, she felt a chill run down her spine at the mention of a name she had never heard. “Who’s Joan?”
Lydia’s face mirrored her astonishment. “Oh, Catherine, I’m so sorry. I thought you knew.” She looked around again before giving a brisk nod. “Let’s wait until we’re inside. Then I’ll tell you what I know.”
When they reached her home, Catherine brewed a pot of tea before leading the way into the parlor where she’d spent so many happy hours with her mother. After Mama had taken ill, Aunt Bertha had been a frequent visitor, sitting in this room, sipping tea or coffee, delivering some of her famous monologues, but to the best of Catherine’s knowledge, she had never mentioned anyone named Joan.
“Who’s Joan?” Catherine repeated her question when she and Lydia were seated in the room’s most comfortable chairs, a low table with the teapot and cups in front of them.
Her blue eyes solemn, Lydia said, “Joan was Aunt Bertha’s daughter.”
For a second, Catherine was speechless, trying to digest the revelation. “Aunt Bertha had a daughter?” As far as Catherine knew, Aunt Bertha and Uncle Jonas had been childless.
Lydia nodded. “She left Cimarron Creek when she was fourteen. That was back in ’59.”
“I was only a year old.” While she would have had no memory of Joan, surely someone in Cimarron Creek would have mentioned a girl who’d lived here for fourteen years, especially one who was also the daughter of a founding family. “It doesn’t make sense. Why has no one spoken of Joan in all those years, and how did you learn things that I never heard about my family?”
Lydia reached over to clasp Catherine’s hand. “Please don’t be upset. I’m sure Aunt Bertha wouldn’t have wanted you to feel hurt or excluded.”
But Catherine did. She felt as if she’d been the victim of a conspiracy of silence. Mama had been here while Joan was alive. She must have known her, and yet she’d never said a word.
Lydia’s eyes radiated sympathy. “You weren’t the only one who didn’t know. Travis didn’t, either. I doubt Aunt Bertha would have said anything to me, but I came home from the store unexpectedly one afternoon and found her crying over Joan’s daguerreotype.” Lydia took a sip of tea, then shook her head slowly as she said, “Perhaps I shouldn’t have pressured her, but I insisted that she tell me what was wrong. That’s how I learned what had happened.”
“Will you tell me?” Catherine was still reeling over the thought that she had an unknown cousin.
Nodding, Lydia said, “As much as I know. Aunt Bertha said the Whitfields and Hendersons have always been concerned about their image in town. I think it’s connected to what you and I called the sense of noblesse oblige, where everyone in the founding families is expected to serve the town in some manner.”
That was the reason Catherine had become a schoolteacher, even though she hadn’t found it a rewarding profession until Lydia had given her some wise counsel.
“Saying the town’s founders were concerned about their image is an understatement. Look at those three Founders’ houses. They’re the epitome of opulence.”
Lydia chuckled. “I have to admit that Travis and I are enjoying ours. I never thought I’d live anywhere so beautiful.” Though many in Cimarron Creek had been shocked when Aunt Bertha had left her mansion to Lydia, Catherine understood the reasons.
“It’s always seemed to me that the first generation of Whitfields and Hendersons were obsessed with serving as an example for everyone else.” Though she was a Whitfield, Catherine and her cousins were less concerned with the family image than their grandparents had been. “Quite honestly, I don’t understand why, but the first generation—and that included Aunt Bertha—seemed to believe that since they founded Cimarron Creek, they needed to be above reproach.”
Lydia took another sip of tea. “That was the problem. Joan’s father didn’t believe that she was above reproach. When Joan di
scovered she was going to have a baby, Uncle Jonas wouldn’t believe she had been attacked and had no idea who the father was, so he and Aunt Bertha sent her to live with Aunt Bertha’s cousins.”
A child born out of wedlock. The very thought sent a shiver down Catherine’s spine. She had no trouble imagining the scandal that situation would have caused, particularly if the mother was a Whitfield or a Henderson. No wonder Aunt Bertha and Uncle Jonas had tried to cover it up. There were no unwed mothers in Cimarron Creek, although a few girls had left town to visit relatives for six or seven months, leading some of the matrons to speculate that a not-so-blessed event had occurred while they were gone.
“Is Joan still with the cousins?” Perhaps Aunt Bertha’s daughter had found a welcoming home there.
“No.” Lydia dispelled that possibility. “Joan ran away as soon as the baby was born, and no one knows where she went. When they heard the news, Uncle Jonas insisted that Joan was dead and decreed that no one mention her name.”
“And because he was a Henderson, everyone listened to him.” The Whitfields’ and Hendersons’ grip on the town had lessened a bit in the intervening twenty years, but Catherine knew that an edict from Jonas Henderson would have had the force of law at that time, in part because he was a lawyer and a man no one dared cross.
Her throat suddenly dry, Catherine raised her cup and sipped the hot beverage before she asked whether Joan had indeed died.
Lydia’s eyes clouded. “I don’t know. Aunt Bertha believed she was alive and tried her best to find her, but even the Pinkertons couldn’t trace Joan. Aunt Bertha couldn’t do much while Uncle Jonas was alive, because he was adamant that Joan be forgotten, but she never gave up hope of being reunited with her daughter. That’s why we went to Ladreville last fall. She was hoping to find a clue.”
“Did she?” Catherine feared she knew the answer, but she had to ask the question.
As expected, Lydia shook her head. “No one there had any idea where Joan had gone. Some thought she might have searched for her baby at some point, but the couple who adopted her baby was from another town, and no one kept in touch with them. It’s as if they all disappeared from the face of the earth.”
What a sad, sad story.
6
I don’t know what to do, Miss Whitfield.” Rebecca Henderson twisted one of her blonde braids between her fingers in a rarely used gesture of frustration. The girl had come back into the schoolhouse before the end of lunch and had perched on the chair next to Catherine’s desk, clearly agitated. “She won’t play with us at recess.”
Catherine nodded slowly. It had been four weeks since Hannah had started school, and she was still silent and distant. Fortunately, she wasn’t a sullen child, but her behavior was definitely not that of a normal six-year-old.
“It’s not your fault, Rebecca. I know you’ve tried.”
Her eyes shining with unshed tears, Rebecca bit her lower lip. “I gave her a doll today. Mama and I ordered it specially for Hannah, but it didn’t make her smile.”
And that had hurt Rebecca. She was as generous as her mother, but like Rachel, she was easily frustrated. Catherine had seen that frustration last summer when she had refused Nate’s offer to escort her to the Founders’ Day dance, a refusal Rachel had considered insulting to Nate, even though Catherine had used her mother’s illness as the reason for not accepting Nate’s invitation. Rachel, it seemed, was almost as protective of her younger brother as she was of her three children.
A glance at the clock told Catherine it was nearly time to summon the pupils, but before she did that, she needed to find a way to console the girl who’d made such an effort to welcome Hannah to Cimarron Creek and its school. Even though Catherine had seen her frustration when Hannah did not respond to her friendly overtures, today was the first day Rebecca had complained.
Catherine touched Rebecca’s shoulder, hoping the gesture would provide as much comfort as her words. “Sometimes people smile on the inside.”
And sometimes they smiled on the outside when they were crying on the inside. Catherine wouldn’t tell Rebecca that, but ever since she had heard the story of Joan Henderson, she had been haunted by the realization that although Aunt Bertha had appeared to be happy, she had borne a great sorrow. It made Catherine wonder what other secrets Cimarron Creek’s residents harbored and whether she truly knew any of her fellow townspeople.
“Smiling on the inside.” Rebecca pursed her lips and stared at her stomach, as if searching for a hidden smile. “Do you think that’s what Hannah’s doing?”
“Maybe.” Though Catherine doubted that was the case, she didn’t want to discourage Rebecca. “Some people are naturally shy. It takes them a long time to make friends.”
Catherine had been one of those. As an only child, she had not had any ready-made playmates. Fortunately, her cousins Travis and Warner had allowed her to tag along on some of their adventures, even when Warner’s brother Porter had protested. The boys’ natural exuberance had broken through Catherine’s barriers and opened her to friendship with girls her age.
Rebecca seemed dubious. “Mama says I’m supposed to be friends with everyone.”
“And you are. You’ve been a good friend to Hannah, and by doing that, you’re helping me. Thank you, Rebecca.” Catherine patted her shoulder again. “When I see your mother, I’ll tell her what a good job you’re doing.”
Rebecca flushed with what appeared to be embarrassment. Surely Catherine’s praise hadn’t flustered her. When the girl bit her lower lip, Catherine knew something else was at work.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Rebecca said. “Mama wants you to come for dinner next Sunday. Uncle Nate’s going to be there too.”
Catherine bit back a sigh. It seemed Rachel was back in matchmaker mode. Catherine knew she should have expected that, especially since Rachel had mentioned that one of her cousins in San Antonio was looking for a teaching position. If Catherine married Nate, the cousin would have a chance to become Cimarron Creek’s next schoolteacher. But Catherine was not going to marry Nate, no matter how happy that would make Rachel or her cousin.
“Please thank your mother, but tell her I won’t be able to come. I always have Sunday dinner with the Grays.” And though dinner with her aunt and uncle was far from the highlight of Catherine’s weeks, it was preferable to a meal with Nate and his matchmaking sister.
Rebecca grinned as if she’d anticipated Catherine’s refusal. “Mama knows that. She talked to Cousin Mary, and it’s all right.”
Which meant that Catherine couldn’t refuse without being rude. “Then I’d be happy to join you.” She’d be happier—far happier—if she could break through Hannah’s shell.
Three hours later Austin entered the schoolhouse, his eyes scanning the desks looking for his daughter. Many afternoons Hannah remained inside, sitting quietly at her desk while she waited for her father, but today was different.
“She’s outside, playing on the swing.” Catherine was surprised Austin hadn’t noticed that when he’d arrived. Though she refused to join in the other children’s games during recess, for the past few days Hannah seemed to like to swing, perhaps because that was an activity she could do alone. The fact that the school had only one swing meant that she would have no companions there.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” Austin sounded almost sheepish. “Something broke into the chicken coop last night, and it took more time than I’d expected to repair it.” He raised his left hand, displaying the bandaged thumb. “There were some unplanned delays.”
Catherine rose from her desk and made a show of inspecting his hand, just as she would have had he been an injured pupil. Boys—big or little—liked to flaunt their battle wounds. As she studied his thumb, Catherine realized the last month had wrought changes in Austin’s hands. They were now more tanned and more callused than when she’d first met him, more what she would have expected of a rancher.
“It seems you were wounded in the line of duty.” Catherine couldn’
t tell what had happened to the thumb, but whoever had wrapped it had done an excellent job.
“I’m afraid the hammer got the best of that round, but Kevin and I made sure the critter—he thinks it’s a javelina—won’t find our chickens such easy pickings again.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
It was an ordinary conversation. On an ordinary day, Catherine would have enjoyed it, but today her thoughts were focused on Hannah and the discussion she and Rebecca had had. Though Hannah had kept the doll at her desk, not once had she looked at it. Even during recess, when the other girls had asked to see it, she had said nothing, merely held the doll up for them to admire.
Austin lowered his hand, and when Catherine resumed her seat, he perched on the corner of the desk rather than using the chair next to it. “You look as if something’s bothering you.” He was close enough that she could smell the soap he’d used to wash off the grime of the day.
Catherine nodded. Once again, Austin had proven to be more perceptive than most of her students’ parents. “I’m concerned about Hannah,” she admitted. “I know it’s difficult for a child to be uprooted, particularly after just losing her mother, but I thought she would have settled in by now. Instead, she’s like a turtle, hiding inside her shell.”
When Austin made no response other than a short nod, Catherine continued. “Hannah’s very bright. Whenever I call on her, she knows the answer, but she never volunteers to speak, and she won’t play with the other children at recess or lunch. I’m concerned.”
His eyes dark with emotion, Austin rolled his shoulders, as if to release the tension that had gripped him while Catherine had been speaking. “So am I. Hannah wasn’t always like this. It started when we moved here.”
Though Austin might not have realized it, that was good news. It meant that this was probably a temporary condition. If Catherine could find the key, perhaps she could accelerate Hannah’s return to normalcy.
“Did she have special friends in Oklahoma? She probably misses them.”
